


Wings

by SD_Ryan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bisexual John, Disguise, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Gift Fic, I might label this crack too if s3 hadn't changed the definition of crack, Johnlock - Freeform, JohnlockChallenges Exchange, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prompt Fic, Smut, Tumblr: johnlockchallenges, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 12:44:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1186344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SD_Ryan/pseuds/SD_Ryan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What is it we’re doing here, Sherlock?”</p><p>Jesus, how many times had he said those words? Under different circumstances they’d held none of the weighty subtext that suddenly seemed potent and—frankly—obvious. What were they doing? What had they been doing all these months?</p><p>Sherlock looked up from his position on the floor—when had he gotten down there?—and murmured, “Working a hypothesis. Experimenting, if you will.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [venvephe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/venvephe/gifts).



> ...who gave the outstanding prompt, “Sherlock in an unexpectedly sexy disguise or costume” in the Johnlockchallenge gift exchange.

The bouncer turned him away. The leather-clad hulk had barely glanced at John, in his conservative, striped button-down and ridiculous shoes, before shaking his head. Luckily, the hen party in line behind him took pity and dragged him past the velvet ropes to the tune of overlapping cackles.

**_Case. 181 Braxton St. 10pm - SH_ **

As vague texts go, it wasn’t the worst he’d ever received, but had John known Sherlock was leading him to a club, he might have dressed the part. Not that his wardrobe of jumpers and khaki trousers allowed for a variety of options. Still, nice to know what you’re wading into.

After plowing through the queue to the bar and buying the hen party a round of drinks (“Ta very much, ladies. Have a good night.”) he set about finding Sherlock and getting on with the investigation. John had spent the day attending to runny noses and rashes, so had no idea what the man might have gotten himself into. A circuit of the room yielded nothing of significance—unless you counted the cheep cologne invading his sinuses and the vodka tonic spilled down his arm—so he placed himself at the edge of the dance floor and tried to blend.

All told, it wasn’t a horrible way to spend Valentine’s Day. It was this or sit home watching classic _Who_ for the millionth time. At least here he could ogle the pretty people and pretend he had romantic options. The music was loud, so discouraged awkward conversation with strangers, and the raised platforms dotted around the dance floor featured some pretty extravagant eye candy. The club had clearly run with the theme: two voluptuous ladies in skimpy white bikinis and wings played “Cupid” opposite two well-fit men in similarly pared-down ensembles. The love gods shimmied around requisite poles, mini bow and arrows in hand, while throngs of drooling admirers circled their feet.

John glanced around the room again in search of that ubiquitous mop of dark curls, but between the sheer volume of people and the disorienting strobe lights, it was a no go.

**_I’m here next to a blonde lady-cupid. Where are you?_ **

Ten minutes later John had turned down three dance partners and two drinks, and still Sherlock hadn’t answered his text. He was feeling chuffed to have garnered so much attention; something about the tame doctor look must be appealing after all. Well, he had been doing a bit of working out. Old Three-Continents-Watson was still in there somewhere, then. Though he was high on flirtation and slowly being swayed by the heavy dance-pop beat, John couldn’t really enjoy the moment for fear that Sherlock had gotten himself into trouble. He scanned the room again, a tick away from placing a call to Lestrade.

Just then his eyes landed on the not-at-all-cherubic figure of one of the male platform dancers, and John let out a gasp of surprise. Oiled, nearly-naked, and writhing on a pole … _was Sherlock fucking Homes._

_“What the hell?”_

Even with Ke$ha threatening permanent damage to their eardrums, the people around John heard his cry and turned an expectant eye to the drama. Individuals may be noble, but a crowd is savage, and this one was salivating at the promise of violence. John ignored his audience and took a hard look at the figure across the room.

Three months of rooming with the man and John had never seen Sherlock in such a state of undress. He was as lean as John had imagined—and yes, late at night, with the door closed, nothing but him and a bottle of lotion, John _had_ imagined. But Sherlock was more muscular than his otherwise fey features would indicate. A white strip of fabric barely bigger than a hand towel was draped around his waist, covering a pair of pants so minuscule they left very little to the imagination. If John had ever wondered about Sherlock’s (ample) assets, and yes _of course_ he had, he now had confirmation. Sherlock was a graceful man, but John had never thought he might possess the capacity to move as he now did: a rhythmic, serpentine sway that radiated heat and confidence and _sex_. 

John adjusted his trousers, keenly aware he might never again be able to face Sherlock without blushing. 

Though it were a dream to spend hours examining the bounty that was Sherlock’s body, John’s eyes were drawn outward to the breathtaking set of ivory wings strapped to the man’s back. Spanning head to toe and fingertip to fingertip, they were an impressive bit of architecture that framed Sherlock’s slick, spectral-pale body like a feathery heart.

John reveled in the enticing expanse of flesh on display, marking time by the beat of his heart and the pulse in cock, but the pageant was unfortunately cut short. For in that moment, like the proverbial lovers in a Harlequin romance, Sherlock met John’s gaze across the crowded dance floor, and John’s stomach plunged into an abyss. Sherlock smirked and carried on dancing without a hitch—as though he’d been aware of John watching him the whole time. As though he’d been putting on a show. John swallowed down his embarrassment and tried not to think too hard about the implications of that.

Rooted in place and staring like a moron, John was relieved when Sherlock gave a subtle nod inviting him over. He felt himself reeled in, feet moving across the crowded floor of their own accord. And still, though he knew it was getting a bit creepy, John couldn’t peel his eyes from the half-naked Cupid. His mouth dried up as he closed the distance, realizing he’d have to speak soon, have to say actual words to his sex-god flatmate. Real words with actual meanings, not the cacophonous porn-static that currently buzzed inside his skull.

Before he knew it, he was there at the foot of Sherlock’s platform, like a supplicant awaiting the command of his beloved deity.

“John.”

Had anyone ever said his name with that particular current of seduction? 

Wait. No. Sherlock was not seducing him. Sherlock didn’t seduce people. Sherlock manipulated people. He controlled people for his own advantage or to prove a point. He didn’t fucking flirt.

It’s for a case, John insisted, shaking himself. It’s an act.

“Sh-Sherlock,” he said in a cracked whisper. John coughed and licked his lips, willing himself to pull it the fuck together. “Bang up job blending in.” When the words came out with an air of detached irony, relief pooled warm in his belly. 

“I’m due for a fifteen. Join me.” 

Then Sherlock hopped down from the platform, wings flapping gloriously, and the crowd parted to make room for every stunning inch of him. With Sherlock in the clear and rightful lead, they moved toward the back corner of the club to a door marked _Employees Only_. As the door closed, stark silence enveloped them, disconcerting in its contrast to the thunderous din they’d left behind. The only sounds were the swish of Sherlock’s wings as they brushed the walls of the narrow passage and the deafening hammering of John’s heart.

At the end of the hall, past stock rooms, toilets, and what looked like the manager’s office, was the entrance to a dim, cramped dressing room. An array of teeny, glittery costumes hung from a rack to the right while a battered make-up table and mirror rested at the back. The performers’ street clothes were piled about the floor and flung over a single wooden chair in the corner. Smelling of sweat and smoke and dust, it was a crap-hole of a room and did a bit to bring John down from the heady, lust-filled haze he was currently operating under.

Sherlock maneuvered through the space in search of something, his wings jostling hangers and brushing softly against John’s face. John moved to the side, pressing himself against the wall in an effort to keep from indiscreetly fondling the feathers.

“What is it we’re doing here, Sherlock?”

Jesus, how many times had he said those words? Under different circumstances they’d held none of the weighty subtext that suddenly seemed potent and—frankly—obvious. What were they doing? What had they been doing all these months?

Sherlock looked up from his position on the floor— _when had he gotten down there?_ —continued to rummage through a knapsack John assumed did not belong to him, and murmured, “Working a hypothesis. Experimenting, if you will.”

Well. He wasn’t going to touch that one with a ten-foot pole. John had been a curious adolescent, had lived through a lonely war, had done his share of “experimentation” with other boys. He desperately needed to ground himself in something real or he’d be floating off into a world of unattainable fantasy, and coming down from that seemed neigh-on impossible.

“Are you—did you really get a job as a club dancer _for a case_?”

“It’s just for the night. The owner brought me in. Thinks one of his people is dealing to the clientele but hasn’t been able to discover the guilty party.”

“Hm.”

John pulled his bottom lip between his teeth. He had the ridiculous urge to compliment Sherlock, to tell him he wore wings well or pay admiration to his dancing. Jesus-fucking-Christ, wouldn’t that just smooth the tension? What the hell was wrong with him?

“Any progress?” he said instead, struggling to sound neutral. Professional.

Sherlock pushed the knapsack aside and looked up from under his lashes. “Rather a lot, actually.”

John squirmed under Sherlock’s predatory gaze and pressed closer to the brick wall. “Okay, then. What's next? What can I do for you?”

He regretted them as soon as the words were out. Not only did his invitation send a flood of obscene images through his mind, but from the way Sherlock smirked, the man could read every. Single. One. John’s breath caught in his throat as Sherlock scooted forward on his knees. The pointed tips of his wings were crushed against the floor and trailing behind. Indecent leer planted on his face, dark curls falling carelessly over his forehead, lips flushed and sharp and red, he looked more fallen angel than god of love.

“I was rather thinking about what I might do for you.”

That wasn’t … that … well, really there weren’t a whole lot of ways to interpret that, were there?

_Were there?_

John’s fingers ached where they clawed the wall. He felt light-headed and slightly drugged. Sherlock was inches away, eyes level with the erection straining his zip. John blushed, mortified, but there was no hiding it now. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Sherlock’s gaze, focusing instead on the glorious ivory arches springing from his back.

Sherlock hummed, sending a warm brush of air through the fabric at John’s pelvis. “There’s something I should tell you, John. Something I haven’t said but always wanted to.”

“Yes?” John croaked. 

Even now—even with all the evidence pointing in a single direction—John still couldn’t bring himself to believe this meant what he hoped it did. Couldn’t believe everything he wanted was here, within touching distance. A part of him still expected Sherlock to jump up and yell, “Gotcha!” and saunter off, leaving him hard and humiliated.

He didn’t know what he was expecting Sherlock to say, but it wasn’t, “We share a vent.”

“We … what?”

Cheshire cat grin, sloe eyes twinkling, words measured and clear. “We. Share. A. Vent.” Sherlock raised a brow as though that it explained it all, but something still didn’t compute. 

“I can hear you, John. In bed at night. I can hear you.”

John’s shame, already burning hot and bright as the sun, went supernova. He closed his eyes and banged his head against brick, letting out a long, low groan.

“Oh my God.” 

He’d heard. Sherlock had heard _everything_. John winced, estimating of the number of times he’d pleasured himself while thinking of Sherlock. The number of times he’d shouted his name. How was he to go back home now? It was very likely the mere possibility of returning to the scene of the crime(s) would make him combust.

“Sherlock,” he began, hands covering his face. “I’m so sorry; I can’t believe—”

“Oh, you _are_ an idiot.”

“What?” Against his better judgment, John parted his fingers just enough to peek out.

“You’re an idiot, John.” He huffed and pursed his lips, shooting the kind of withering glare of which only Sherlock was capable. “I’ve lured you to a club and paraded around in this ridiculous outfit; I’ve dragged you into a secluded dressing room; I’ve positioned myself in front of you _on my knees_ ; and I have yet to indicate anything but _inordinate pleasure_ at the idea of you crying out my name as you come. Could I be any more clear?”

“So … you’re saying …” 

John’s heart was well and truly on its way to bursting now. This condition was not diminished as Sherlock reached for John’s trousers. 

“I’m saying …” He tugged at the button, slipping it from from the loop, then paused, waiting for confirmation.

John shuddered out a breath and nodded.

“… that I would very much like to have my way with you today …” 

Sherlock dragged the zipper down and pulled the fabric open, revealing the sizable bulge in John’s red boxer-briefs. 

“… and everyday hereafter.”

The sound John made was somewhere between a gurgle and a squeal. And with that, he decided to let go of his self-doubt and plunge headlong into this beautiful thing Sherlock had conjured between them. Well, if wanting had made it reality, then they’d both conjured it, and John was happy to take his share of the blame for that.

“All right then. Have your way with me,” he said, sounding much more the soldier now than he had all evening.

With a sudden spark alighting his eyes, Sherlock complied. He pulled John’s trousers and pants down to his knees, lifted the hem of his shirt and vest, and buried his nose in the curls at the base of John’s bobbing cock. 

Bold as he was feeling, John wasn’t quite prepared for _that_ and let out a rather unmanly squeak. Leave it to Sherlock to take the atypical approach. Long fingers curled around John’s hips, face smashed into a place not many faces had ever desired being smashed, a satisfied hum rattling in his throat, Sherlock took what he wanted without shame. It was all so strange and wonderful, it made John feel like a teen exploring sex for the first time.

Sherlock’s eyes shuttered closed as he took a deep inhale through his nose. John was sure at the very least he was unpleasantly musky after a long day, but the smile on Sherlock’s face spoke of the greatest satisfaction. The way he nosed around was almost scientific. Not cold and clinical, but like Sherlock was examining him with a focus few, if any, had ever cared to show. It sent a ripple of affection through John and banished any lingering embarrassment.

When his olfactory curiosity had been fulfilled, Sherlock moved onto gustatory exploration. The first feel of Sherlock’s hot, wet tongue on his skin sent a crackling shiver down John’s spine. His hips pitched forward, and he clamped his eyes shut, overwhelmed by the sight of those lips resting against the length of his prick.

The traditional method was, of course, out. Sherlock didn’t start at the tip. Didn’t even envelop him at all, but took teasing swipes along his shaft, down to his base, and then over each testicle—as though studying differences in texture and taste. It didn’t matter to John. The reality of Sherlock here, wanting him, was better than any half-baked fantasy he’d had in the privacy of his room. Sherlock could dry hump him in a full-body bee costume, and John suspected it would still be the best sex of his life.

Happy to move things at whatever pace Sherlock preferred, John was still overwhelmingly pleased when the man grasped him around the base and smeared his lips across the leaking end of his cock. Divine in supplication, the ethereal figure at his feet was the most gorgeous thing John had ever seen. The great wonders of the world had nothing on Sherlock with his cupid’s bow lips (oh the irony!) finally taking John whole into his mouth.

John gasped and let his head fall back against the wall. He warred with the urge to watch the glory taking place or to close his eyes and simply feel. The sight of Sherlock worshipping him so devoutly won in the end.

Unmoored, John’s hand hovered in the air, alternately clenching and relaxing, until Sherlock took his wrist and firmly placed his hand at the base of his skull. Startled, John met Sherlock’s silver-green eyes. They brooked no argument, and so John acquiesced. He sensed more than saw the smile around his cock and groaned, “Jesus, Sherlock.” He had no desire to force Sherlock where he didn’t want to go, but he loved the feel of the man’s hair wound through his fingers. He stroked gently while Sherlock bobbed. 

In the end, it didn’t take long. He’d been primed for this for months, if he was honest with himself. Weeks of foreplay had been carried out at the breakfast table in 221B, under the bright lights of New Scotland Yard, and on the tail of a criminal fleeing down some dark alley. They had always been moving toward this—whether John admitted it or not—and now that it was here, all he could do was let go.

His stomach coiled into a tight ball while a symphony played along his nerve endings. His legs started to give just before the wave took him. The fingertips of one hand pressed to the wall behind, a warning tug of Sherlock’s hair with the other, John felt himself teeter toward the edge and then tip into oblivion.

“Sherlock!” John cried as he fell. 

A snow-white flash sparked briefly behind his lids then faded while the tremors rocked through him. Everything amazingly simple. Everything right. 

“Oh … oh, God,” he said with a wrecked moan.

Sherlock held him in his mouth until John stilled, and even then he seemed loath to let him go.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock hummed.

“Sherlock,” John tried again. “If you keep at that, I may lose feeling in my legs.”

He pulled away at last, looking sheepish, and helped John in a controlled collapse to the floor.

“Holy Christ.”

“Indeed.” 

The sound of their mingled laughter was the perfect closing punctuation to this mad day. John tried to wrap his arms around Sherlock but was thwarted by the gigantic wings. They had served their purpose, but now they were just in the way. Together, the two men slipped them from Sherlocks arms, and John pulled him into a tangled embrace. He stroked a hand down Sherlock’s back, amazed by his ability to do something so simple yet so full of meaning. Mere hours before it had been unthinkable, but now. Well, now it was everything.

“Would you like … I mean, we should take care of you.” He felt suddenly shy. Ridiculous considering.

Sherlock smiled against his neck. “We’ve roughly two minutes before Lestrade and his team burst in here, so I’m afraid it’ll have to wait.”

When his shock subsided, John scrambled for his trousers, tangled as they were around his knees and nearly unreachable through the barrier of Sherlock’s uncooperative body.

“Wait—when did you call Lestrade?” he said as he struggled to get the fabric over his thighs. 

“This afternoon.” Sherlock pressed a kiss to John’s neck. “When I solved the case.”

“You solved it this afternoon? You found the dealer?”

John managed to get himself tucked away and zipped and figured that was as good as it was going to get. It’s not like anyone with half a brain could miss what had happened between the two of them, and really, John didn’t give two fucks if people knew. He actually relished the chance to show off his new beau.

“I was never after the dealer. That was all a pretext to uncover the details of the club owner’s art theft sideline.”

“Art theft—? Jesus, Sherlock.” John shook his head. “So this whole thing—calling me to the club, dancing in that getup, taking me back here on your break—that was all …”

“For you,” Sherlock finished. “Yes.”

“Well then,” John sighed.

“Are you angry?”

John felt his heart seize at the uncertainty in Sherlock’s voice, in his eyes. For the first time all day, the man looked like he was risking something. Like he might have something to lose.

“Of course not. It was a good plan.” He stroked Sherlock’s hair and pulled him close. “Got us here, didn’t it?”

As he dipped his head down to meet Sherlock in the first of what promised to be many kisses, John heard the door to the dressing room swing open, followed quickly by a sharp gasp of surprise. He lingered in Sherlock’s arms, in no hurry to break the kiss. After all, it was Valentine’s Day, and Cupid never let anything get in the way of love.

**Author's Note:**

> So this little thing totally got away from me. I was going to dash off a cute quickie drabble and before I knew it, I'd written 3.5k words in a day. I would have never come across this idea on my own, so I owe a huge debt of gratitude to venvephe for her extraordinary prompt. It was a delight to discover venvephe in the course of this challenge. She's a fantastic artist and writer and you should definitely check her stuff out.
> 
> The vent-sharing idea was inspired by "Surveilled" by Saathi1013, an EXCELLENT Sherlock/John/Sarah story in the flawless Lorem Ipsum series.
> 
> In order to set this on Valentine's Day, I had to fudge canon timing by a few months. I'm sure you noticed and were totally bothered by it. ;)
> 
> If you're interested, the photo reference I used for Sherlock's costume can be found here: http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_3RaT_8-tQ5c/SwTHhZp86JI/AAAAAAAAKO4/RySddF4oKyU/s1600/Unknown-1.jpeg I realize it's more angel than cupid, but sacrifices in authenticity need be made in the name of hotness. 
> 
> Finally, I would shoot rainbow sparks of joy out of my ass were somebody inspired to art this (or any of my fics, really).
> 
> xoxo,  
> s
> 
> EDIT: I'm considering doing a sequel to this piece. I don't have a preference for this sort of thing (I usually take it scene by scene), but I know some of you have strong feelings about Top!John vs. Top!Sherlock. So I thought I'd let you vote. Leave a comment about who you'd like to see where in a follow up scene, and I'll tally in a week or so. You could also make suggestions for a costume John might wear for Sherlock if you're so inspired...


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